


all we are

by helo572



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Ardat-Yakshi, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 03:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14803481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helo572/pseuds/helo572
Summary: It seems no matter how real her flesh is beneath his fingertips, those same people still talk, and more dangerous people get the wrong ideas. It’s how he came to be staring down the barrel of Jane’s gun in some shitty alley thirty-four floors below the Normandy, with nothing but the unnatural black of her eyes glinting in the low streetlight.





	all we are

**Author's Note:**

> [onerepublic - all we are](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dkhz7KbuWIA)
> 
> so you know that post on tumblr.... [this one](http://talizorahs.tumblr.com/post/174397385789/quirk-y-angsty-romantic-cliches-im-a-slut)...... yeah. that's my excuse. specifically i have filled:
> 
> \- one is mind controlled and forced to hurt the other  
> \- the other refusing to hurt them and getting severely injured as a result  
> \- the person coming to and seeing what they've done
> 
> my friend zee who ~~talked me into doing such things~~ prompted me for shakarian, so here we are! thank you so much for the prompt zee i love u!!!! please enjoy  <3

He should have seen it coming, really. Shepard’s name was household before he even set foot on the Normandy for the first time -- a model N7, the first human in the running to be a Spectre, then the first human Spectre, later the saviour of the Citadel. Most recently, she was the born again human martyr.  The last came with much talk, most of which he was privy to during his time as Archangel, and it ranged from blind worship to violent accusations of false godhood. 

 

It seems no matter how real her flesh is beneath his fingertips, those same people still talk, and more dangerous people get the wrong ideas. It’s how he came to be staring down the barrel of Jane’s gun in some shitty alley thirty-four floors below the Normandy, with nothing but the unnatural black of her eyes glinting in the low streetlight.

 

She is dressed casually tonight, with that pistol strapped to the inside of thigh, a knife in her boot, and Garrus’s arm around her waist. The Illusive Man had dispatched them to an underground club on Omega, below Aria’s purview, in the leagues of slave trafficking. Their contact was under the name of Nuvina, an asari looking to sell out their slaver overlords in exchange for asylum with Cerberus.

 

And Nuvina had shown, and then some. Woven some story about humans and their violent tendencies, her sisters who were killed in the Citadel attack, and how some things just ought to stay dead. Jane had sat stiffly, staring her down across the dark table, with Garrus’s hand on her thigh.

 

Their guest had accepted drinks throughout, Garrus and Jane had not. At the offer of an escort to the Normandy, she reels, enough for Garrus to feel biotic energy crackling in the air. Something jabs at his senses, churning through his chest like electricity -- and not the blue type.

 

“They’ve found me,” are Nuvina’s exact words, although the remainder would come to be a blur. There is running, an ample amount, twists and turns through alleyways he does not recognise, and a sense of urgency thrumming through he and Shepard’s joined hands.

 

“Something’s….” Jane may have gasped at one point, when they crawl to a stop somewhere dirty and nondescript, their contact bent over and gasping for breath ahead of them. “Garrus, something’s not r--”

 

“Shepard?” He doesn’t like the twitch which sits into his mandibles, nor the shaken look in Jane’s eyes, amplified when she looks to Nuvina, who has appeared beside them both. Her bare fingers trace Shepard’s neck, and that fear is eaten by darkness -- her green eyes fade to black, and Nuvina smiles.

 

Garrus blinks, and he’s staring down Shepard’s pistol at near point-blank range, and at her lifeless eyes.

 

Nuvina is gone, the sense of urgency and  _ not right _ is gone, his heart is gone. Now, it sits in his throat, and he struggles to swallow it back down, what with the newfound panic welling in his chest.

 

_ Something’s not right _ , were going to be Jane’s words.

 

Perhaps, if he weren’t held at gunpoint by Commander Shepard, he would laugh at how right she had been. And so, he counts his breaths --  _ in _ ,  _ out, in out, in, out _ \-- and slowly, the haze of his mind clears, his mind catches up to the present. They are still in the alleyway; a single, yellow-orange light hangs above them, casting their shadows across the ground. The same biotic energy dances across the air, pulling at his senses, and at Shepard’s skin. It engulfs her, blue and dangerous as it glows on her skin, a deadly complement to the darkness of her eyes.

 

_ Embrace entity _ . The phrase comes to his mind; a meeting of minds in the old ready room aboard the first Normandy; explanations about asari mind melding. And the Justicar: her own grim explanations only a few days ago, her daughters, and the devilish smirk of an--

 

“Ardat-Yakshi.” Nuvina’s voice, a way behind him and out of sight, but chilling all the same. “That’s what they would call it. But I think of it more as a gift,” she says. “The power to kill as I choose. As a God would.”

 

He doesn’t dare take his eyes off Shepard, to stop playing into this creature’s game, whatever it might be. “You know us, Nuvina. You know who we work for, what we’re capable of.”

 

There’s a laugh, a cold one, making Garrus grit his teeth. The energy thrumming off Shepard and through the alley hits him full-force as the sound echoes, eerily so.

 

He tries again, “And you know that, whatever you do here, somebody will find you and make you pay for it.”

 

“Shepard should have stayed dead,” is her cryptic answer. 

 

It casts his thoughts suddenly cast back to the underground chatter all those months ago: a mad soul eater who thinks herself a deity, blashempied by Shepard’s return from the dead. It was easily dismissable at the time, of course, but not so much when it stares you in the face. Knowing their track record, the infamy Shepard now holds, he really,  _ really _ should have seen it coming. 

 

“And, you know, I’m rather disappointed,” she goes on, appearing in his peripheral out of the low light of the alley, “I would have thought the revered Commander Shepard would put up a better fight. Especially for  _ you _ , Archangel. What would you be to her, then? A bodyguard? Her toy?”

 

“Her friend,” he says, without taking his eyes of his friend -- his lover, his everything.

 

Nuvina cocks her head like the idea offends her, a movement he tracks in the corner of his eye. His attention is on Shepard, gun locked to his forehead, black eyes boring into his soul. Nuvina’s heels click on the floor as she approaches, sharply, drilling into Garrus’s senses.

 

“Her  _ friend _ ,” she echoes. “Friend.”

 

She is to his left, arms folded behind her back, face screwed up as if she were in immense thought. Shepard has not moved, neither have Garrus’s eyes, nor his heart from his throat.

 

“What would it do to her, do you think, if she were to take this stolen life she has,” Nuvina appears at Jane’s side, eyes wandering to her gun, then to Garrus’s face, “and use it to murder her friend?”

 

He knows exactly. He remembers Jane after losing Ashley, and he remembers more vividly those first few nights he spent aboard the new Normandy, with Jane still coming to terms with her new life -- her second life. Life was something Jane held preciously, something she hated to take, and something she fought valiantly to protect.

 

Losing him.  _ Well _ . That would destroy her. Let alone losing him to her own hand.

 

“ _ Perfect _ ,” purrs Nuvina.

 

The gun goes off, white and blinding before Garrus’s eyes, the same sensation that explodes from his shoulder. And Jane’s heavy pistol is powerful; he’s falling backwards before he registers Nuvina is in  _ his _ mind, too, and Jane has just--

 

Pain shoots up his shoulder, his side, through his chest. It seizes his breath in his throat, freezing it like ice, but still a cry of pain is forced from his lips when he hits the ground. The shock hits him just as hard, as do the tendrils of fear -- for himself, for Jane -- that grab him in a vice, throwing adrenalin into his limbs.

 

“Perfect!” he hears Nuvina cry, and that might be gleeful clapping, perhaps even deranged laughter. “ _ Perfect _ !”

 

And there is Jane, still, gun hanging between her fingers, dark eyes narrowed, steps purposeful as she stalks towards him again. Fear drills into him harder, primal instincts screaming:  _ Get up, run, live-- _

 

His shoulder screams as he obeys, rolling sideways first -- to avoid the butt of the gun she brings down, hard, hitting the ground where his head had been. And then he’s on his feet, quick enough to catch her arm as she lines up a second shot. Garrus is quicker; the gun goes off, but the bullet flies past the side of his face and lands in the opposing wall. 

 

The shock eats at him, that she nearly shot him  _ again _ . That this is happening, that he has to fight her, hurt her. In the lock of their arms, and the reprieve while she reloads, he croaks, “ _ Shepard _ , please--” but nothing falters, the biotics crackling through the alley remain unforgiving.

 

Instead, his words have her round on him again, gun forgotten in the wrestle of their arms. Garrus has always been stronger, as turians are, but the sudden pummel of her fists against his injured shoulder jarrs him hard enough.

 

She seems…. pleased, almost, when he gives another cry of pain as she hits him. Those dark eyes narrow, and when he blocks the third punch, he sees the smile curling across her lips. The gun is discarded on the ground behind them now as she swings at him, again and again, but it is nothing like an exchange of blows.

 

“Jane,” he tries again, when he blocks a particularly hard right hook, yanking her arm so they’re close, “ _ Please _ . I won’t hurt you.”

 

In reply, she slams her head into his. The impact usually wouldn’t be so painful -- human heads have nothing but their skull, but turians’ are encased in bone. Except, it sends a wave a pain that reverberates from the hard of his head, through to his shoulder, all the way down to his legs. Jane sees him stumble, and with a roar, tackles him against the alley wall.

 

It’s even worse than the headbutt, making his knees buckle, and his the edges of his vision go white. He spares a thought, in the moment it slows down, of the extent of the bullet wound and how good of a shot mind-controlled Commander Shepard really is.

 

Regardless, it hurts like a bitch.

 

Shepard has him pinned against the wall, fists flying, digging into the cavity between his breast bone and his waist. Each blow eats at his shoulder, streaks of agony which steal thought from him -- thoughts of Shepard, of his own life, and of them both. 

 

Then, she drives a knee into his stomach, sending his vision white, stealing his breath from his lungs. It must have sent him crashing to the ground, because the next thing he sees is her red hair and her dark eyes, towering above him like the larger-than-life woman she is. Except, there’s not the Shepard he knows looking at him, only fury, black and deadly.

 

Somewhere in the alleyway, on the edge of his awareness, a woman laughs and laughs. It’s a constant soundtrack, something which seems to fuel the evil smile at Jane’s lips as she looks down at him.

 

“ _ Jane _ ,” Garrus tries, one last time, and he doesn’t recognise the sound of his own voice.

 

Perhaps she had been waiting for him to plead again, or perhaps it had been the woman, the asari, the Ardat-Yakshi, the--

 

Jane punches him, fist connecting with the side of his jaw. The blow whips his head into the ground, sending his ears ringing, and his thoughts flying. The single light which bathes the alleyway swims in his vision, as does Jane’s face.

 

“Ple--” She hits him again, harder. And then, the third blow is perhaps the worst, the white creeping into his vision, the agony creeping into his body through every crevice, the blue, red--

 

She hits him over, and over, and over, and over-- And when he finally rakes in a breath, it’s to look across the ground of the alleyway. It swims in and out of focus, but one thing is clear: the gun, sitting just beyond the reach of his outstretched hand.

 

_ Get up, run, live _ says his body, as it slowly creeps back into awareness. His fingers creep towards the pistol.

 

A blue-tinted hand is quicker. But whatever was crushing him, eating at him -- it eases off his chest and he rakes in another breath, harder. The air against his struggling lungs make him cough, sending the rest of him reeling from the sudden explosion of pain.

 

He rides it out, lets the dirt of the alley floor swim in and out of focus, lets the agony creep out of his limbs. He’s halfway there, eyes half-lidded and watching the vague shapes move beyond the reaches of his vision, when the gun goes off.

 

The sound is as clear as a bell, cutting through the static of his senses. So is the next sound: “ _ Garrus _ .” It’s a sob, or perhaps even a plea -- it breaks his heart regardless. “Garrus.”

 

Much like the maniacal laughter, it becomes a soundtrack, background noise which accompanies him into the dark.

 

“-- thirty-four. No, I--”

 

“-- dead, she’s dead _ \-- _ ”

 

“ _ Garrus _ \--”

 

“-- don’t know. I don’t -- I can’t --”

 

“Garrus--”

 

“ _ Garrus _ .”

 

\--

 

“Garrus?” It’s a whisper, but it tickles at his senses, stirs at his chest. Except, there is nothing but white when he opens his eyes, and when he tries to reply, he breathes it in. The air is icy and cold, squeezing at his lungs, and it sends him spluttering. It consumes him again quickly.

 

\--

 

“ _ Garrus _ .” Firm, commanding. The white hurts this time, pulling at his limbs, stabbing at his chest. He wants to fight it, wants it to stop, but that voice holds him there in a vice. “That’s right. You rest, big guy.” He sees no alternative but to obey.

 

\--

 

“Garrus…” This one is emotional, reeling, hurting. It stirs at the base of his chest, fluttering against his heart. He longs to reach out to touch, to soothe -- instinct pulls at him, but pain pulls him back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so--” He squeezes her hand, a weight in his, the movement pulling him back under quickly.

 

\--

 

“Garrus.” Red appears in his vision, trickling in with the white. He blinks, hard, a great effort. The white drains, giving way to red hair, green eyes, and a relieved smile. “Hi.”

 

“Hey,” he breathes in return. The rest of the backdrop falls into place: the medbay aboard the Normandy, the low lights, her tousled hair, the dull ache of his body. “What--”

 

“Shh,” she soothes, that hand still in his, holding on tight. “It’s late, you rest.” She doesn’t seem to quite believe that, because the green shines in her eyes, twinkling. “I’m-- I’m so glad you’re okay. So glad. God, Garrus, I--” A tear tracks down her cheek and he longs to reach out, to brush it from her face. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“Okay,” he whispers, trying to hold those sad eyes, trying to soothe where his hands cannot. “It’s…. okay….”

 

The red and green takes him, this time. The white is simply an afterthought.

 

\--

 

“Mr Vakarian,” it is this time, slightly bemused. “It’s good to see you back with us.” That’s none other than Karin Chakwas smiling at him, one hand poised on his chest gently, the other on a machine to her side. “How are you feeling?”

 

What a question, for a number of reasons. The first, being that she  _ must _ know how he feels, given how she’s looking at him. The second, being that the dull ache he remembers from before has been replaced by a stabbing pain that starts at his shoulder, traverses his chest, and finishes in his throat each terms he takes a breath.

 

“Shitty,” sums it up quite nicely.

 

The doctor laughs heartily. “Wonderfully put. You’ll be fine.” She touches the machine a few more times, then sets a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your scrapes and bruises are healing nicely, but that bullet wound will take time. We’ll have a talk about it when we haven’t got you so doped up.”

 

He wants to take offense, because he’s a turian, and this is obviously merely a flesh wound if he’s not lying here dead. But then he remembers those green eyes from the night before, the voices echoing his head, and resigns himself with a sigh.

 

“Thank you, doc,” he murmurs instead, settling blissfully back into a drug-induced sleep.

 

\--

 

“Garrus.” Shepard’s voice is blissfully clear when he opens his eyes this time, as is the curl of her fingers around his own.

 

“Jane,” he returns, proud of the strength in his voice, and even prouder when he shifts to look at her. She looks less tousled than last he saw her, but that same sadness is reflected in her green eyes, that same regretful smile. “I’m glad to see you.”

 

Her smile turns wet, eyes shining. “I’m happy to see you, too.” She swallows thickly. “How do you feel? I can get Dr Chakwas--” She’s already halfway to her feet at the offer, but him gripping her hand is enough to stop that charge.

 

“No, no. It’s fine,” he says, softly, and she sits again. “I’m fine. Just glad to see you.”

 

The things she wants to say all come to fruition in her eyes there, and Garrus can count all of them, one-by-one:  _ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, it was my fault, I hurt you, you’re never going to forgive me, I am so, so-- _

 

“Jane,” he says longingly, to quell those thoughts of hers, to stop the quiver of her bottom lip. “Come here.” He tugs on her hand. “Come here.”

 

She settles against his chest, and he tucks his good arm around her, squeezing as tight as his aching chest will allow. The contact is peaceful, setting his heart at ease, even more so when she tucks her head under his chin.

 

Her hair tickles his face, so he presses hIS lips to her head, words rolling off his tongue, “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

 

\--

 

“Don’t you look handsome.” Dr Chakwas admires her handiwork with a satisfied nod, and a pat on Garrus’s good shoulder for good measure. His other arm is hugged in an offensively white sling. “We keep that shoulder rested, then we’ll get you back in for a bit of physio, and you’ll be right to go again before we know it.”

 

Her confidence is refreshing, making him smile. “Thanks for all the help,” he says, sincerely, and she smiles back.

 

“Why, don’t try to sound  _ too _ grateful, Garrus. It’s my job.” She jabs him playfully in the arm, then wanders back over to her desk, still laughing.

 

It’s a relief to get to his feet and walk about a bit, while it’s quiet. The rest of him is still sore, but thankfully, now manageable.

 

“And Garrus,” Dr Chakwas adds, when he’s about to disappear out into the common area, “I’ve booked you and Jane both sessions with Yeoman Chambers. EDI can give you all the details later, but I’d like it if you both made an effort to attend when you’re able.”

 

“Thanks, doc,” he says, sincerely again, and she gives him a mock salute on the way out.

 

\--

 

The Illusive Man at least has the decency to look regretful when Shepard and Garrus deliver the full debrief.

 

“An Ardat-Yakshi,” he says in disbelief, shaking his head. It’s enough that he puts down his cigarette, turning out towards the sun. Garrus can see the cogs working in his mind, trying to see where his intel was wrong, who needed to be punished. “Very rare. And especially one so powerful, capable of mind control to that degree.”

 

Shepard shivers beside him, and behind their backs, Garrus takes her hand. She holds on for dear life.

 

The Illusive Man goes on, “I’m glad you both survived such an encounter.” Then he turns back, those eerie eyes piercing, and Shepard steels herself, slipping her hand free of Garrus’s as she goes. “You broke free, Jane? We ought to discuss how--”

 

The simulation cuts off abruptly, and Garrus realises it’s because Jane has stepped off the holo-pad, and is already halfway out the door. He’s at her heels at an instant, words on his lips, but saves them until they are safe in her quarters.

 

The elevator ride is grueling, but her silence is worse when the door closes behind them. It’s there he realises it’s the same look in her eyes, when the asari took over -- helpless terror. “Hey,” he whispers, moving to take her hand again.

 

Jane just shakes her head, turning away. “I didn’t want to tell you,” she starts, “but I’m going to have to tell someone eventually, and hell if it’s going to be  _ that _ man.” Her hands are balled into fists, her jaw working, eyes shining with emotion, not tears. She goes on slowly, “I was awake. The whole time it made me hurt you. And the only reason I broke free is I saw you lying there, just…” She shakes her head again, as if she could rid of the images she was seeing. She swallows thickly. “I thought you were dead, Garrus. You were just…. lying there. And all I could think to myself was: this is  _ not _ where I’m going to let you die, not some backwater alley on Omega, not where I saved you from the first time. I  _ won’t _ .” Her voice breaks, and that instinct to reach out returns tenfold. “I won’t.”

 

Her shoulders are shaking again, but there’s no tears, just anger hidden behind those green eyes. At herself, at the asari, at this whole situation. When she summons the words to speak again, it’s a moment later, and her words are quiet, exhausted, “So, I make myself grab that pistol, and I shoot that  _ thing _ straight through the head.”

 

The admission is weighted, Garrus can tell. She deflates as the last of the breath of those words leave her, shoulders drooping, eyes losing that tell-tale fire. It’s here she meets his eyes, then she just smiles, that same smile she gave him that night in the medbay.

 

“And then I just…. held you until they could find us. And here you are. God knows what I’d do if you  _ weren’t _ here and I killed you in that alley.” Now she does reach for him, and he obligues, taking her by the hand into a hug. Into his chest, she whispers, “I don’t want to think about it.”

 

“Then don’t,” he answers. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

 

“Yeah,” she murmurs, as he wraps his good arm around her shoulders again, holding her tight, “You are.”

**Author's Note:**

> "We won't say our goodbyes  
> You know it's better that way  
> We won't break, we won't die  
> It's just a moment of change
> 
> All we are, all we are  
> Is everything that's right  
> All we need, all we need  
> A lover's alibi, yeah"  
> ALL WE ARE, OneRepublic
> 
> THANK U FOR READING!!!!


End file.
